


It’s About to Get Hectic

by nymphe



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Finger Sucking, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marathon Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Self-Lubrication, Sex Pollen, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 07:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18494707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymphe/pseuds/nymphe
Summary: “Don’t let that get on your skin,” Deaton says, and, woops, too late.Here be sex pollen with a touch o’ pining and feelings.





	It’s About to Get Hectic

**Author's Note:**

> had intended to post something light and wholesome and not sex, and then got caught on sex pollen and thought, okay, lemme keep it under 8k. i am the least in control.
> 
> tagged underage, but stiles’ age isn’t explicitly mentioned, so do with that what you will. 
> 
> i repeat, this is a sex pollen fic. consent is touched upon, but it’s sex pollen and consent is therefore dubious at best, so keep that in mind and tread lightly.
> 
> title from bassnectar, because, uh, it’s about to get hectic.
> 
> *please read the end notes if you have any triggers to avoid!

“Don’t let that get on your skin,” Deaton says, and, woops, too late. 

Not that he really could’ve avoided it, because the jar had spilled in his hands when he’d caught it, and weird shimmery blue dust had literally exploded all over him. And like, it’s not like he’d thrown it on the ground or something, this totally wasn’t his fault. Shouldn’t Deaton learn to properly jar and store mysterious, maybe life-threatening substances? 

Great, so he’s probably going to, like, turn into a six-inch tall fairy or his skin is going to be permanently stained and glittery or something. Maybe he’ll grow little kitty-ears and a tail? Ooh, maybe he’ll turn invisible.

“Um,” he says, “am I gonna die?”

Deaton sighs and shakes his head, unsympathetically.

But if it was really dangerous, Deaton would’ve locked it up, or at least made sure it was secured or something, right? So, what’s the worst that could happen? He’s probably not going to die, right?

Right, technically. But just because it doesn’t immediately kill him, that doesn’t mean the forthcoming series of events is going to be any less tragic and terrible.

“Um,” Scott starts. He sniffs the air, ineffectually, since Stiles thinks the stuff doesn’t really smell like anything at all. A little sweet. “Is Stiles going to die?”

Deaton’s face is carefully, scarily blank. He either has the best poker face in the world, or he knows Stiles is about to die and doesn’t care at all. Stiles is really, really hoping he’s just part of a secret underground gambling ring.

“Stiles, I think it would be best if you washed your hands and changed out of your clothing while I discuss your condition with Scott.”

His condition? Oh, he’s definitely dying. He’s dying a virgin. 

“Um,” he says, “I didn’t bring a change of clothes?”

“I think there’s an extra pair of sweatpants in my trunk,” Scott says. He’s still sniffing the air. He looks really confused, face scrunched up.

“Please go get them. Stiles will no doubt start to feel the effects very shortly, but we should still limit the exposure as much as we can.”

Scott backs out the door very slowly, staring at Stiles the entire time. He’s starting to look less confused and more... nervous. Like he’s finally recognizing whatever he was smelling.

“The effects,” Stiles echos, dazedly. He already feels anxious, but he’s not sure if that’s an effect of whatever this powder is, or if it’s the anxiety of knowing something very bad is about to happen to him, but not being told what.

“I should inform your Alpha,” Deaton says, ignoring him. “In the mean time, please do wash your hands.”

Stiles moves, sluggishly, to the sink at the back of the room. He’s vaguely aware of the sounds of shuffling and chattering behind him; Scott must be back, or maybe Deaton is on the phone with Derek.

He zones out, rinsing his hands and drenching them in antibacterial soap and rinsing them again, under the lukewarm tap. His hands feel weird, a little tingly, like pins and needles, but not.

When he turns back around to look for a hand towel, he’s faced with Scott and Deaton speaking in hushed whispers beyond the doorway. Scott keeps glancing in his direction, looking worried, but keeps nodding his head as Deaton talks.

He slips out of his jeans and into the sweatpants Scott had left for him on the exam table. The sleeves of his hoodie are starting to feel scratchy and too-warm against his arms, and he realizes that it, too, is covered in the stuff, so he strips it off, tosses it over the chair in the corner. The powder makes it look iridescent where it catches the light.

He leans against the table and picks at his nails while he waits for them to finish discussing his impending death, or whatever other horrible fate is awaiting him. He feels warm, too warm, considering it’s January, and the vet’s office is usually chilly. The coolness of the metal feels nice against his palms.

He taps his fingers against the table for a few minutes, thinks about maybe sending his dad a text to let him know he’s probably gonna die. He’s still figuring out how to word it when he’s abruptly, and rudely, drawn out of his thoughts by the snapping of someone’s fingers in front of his face.

Derek’s fingers. When did Derek get here? His stomach feels weird. His head feels weird, too. Foggy.

“Am I gonna die?” he asks, not sure who he’s directing it to. He thinks he was probably asking Deaton, but his gaze is drifting off behind Derek, and Deaton’s not there - he’s behind Stiles, searching through a cabinet. Maybe he was just thinking out loud.

“You’ll survive, but you’ll be in a considerable amount of pain and discomfort for the next 12 hours,” Deaton says. Derek’s hand is on his chin, tilting his head to each side and inspecting him in a way that’s not exactly alleviating the heavy, thick feeling in his veins. “The worst of it should subside around the 12 hour mark, but there may be lingering effects for another 12 or so hours after that. It’s difficult to tell how much of it was absorbed into your skin, but I’d wager it was a decent amount.”

Stiles blinks, sleepily. His skin is starting to feel tight, stretched over his bones in a way he doesn’t like. Is he going through puberty again?

Deaton is somewhere next to him now, crushing something in a mortar and pestle. Whatever it is, it’s strong, and it doesn’t smell good. It smells like vinegar and smoke and eucalyptus, maybe one of the worst combinations of smells Stiles could think of.

“Derek is going to drive you home,” Deaton is saying. He sounds far off, like he’s underwater, even though he’s literally right there. “I would recommend showering immediately.” He hands a jar of the goop to Derek; Stiles’ hand had been too limp to grasp it. “This should soothe some of the burning feeling. Use it on any of the affected areas.”

How did Deaton know he was burning up? Oh. He’s sweating. He can feel it now, slick on his skin, dampening his t-shirt. His cheeks are really, really warm, probably flushed pink. He probably looks worse than he feels, which would be a feat because he feels pretty fucking unwell right now.

“I don’t feel well,” he says. His voice sounds scratchy. Derek has a hand on his elbow, squeezing. His other hand is resting on the back of his neck. His touch feels really, really good, Stiles shivers a little under it.

Deaton has the good grace to finally show a little bit of pity on his face. He _should_ feel guilty; his ineffective powder-storing methods are the reason Stiles is in the predicament he’s currently in.

“It will pass,” Deaton says. Derek’s hand is stroking his nape; he thinks his mouth gapes open a little, his body drooping. Why does he feel so vulnerable?

Deaton turns his attention to Derek. “Call me with updates on his progress. He should be coherent and rational for the next hour or two; you should be able to discuss how he’d like to proceed before the fever clouds his lucidity. I trust that you’ll be able to care for him properly, should it get to that point. If his condition worsens, bring him here immediately. I’ll attempt to work on an antidote while you monitor him, but I cannot assure anything; the particular band of nymphs that crafted this magic are extremely thorough and their work often cannot be undone.”

He feels all wrong - hot, tight, dizzy. Drunk in a bad way. His nerve endings are all vibrating. “Derek?” his voice is too quiet, he sounds weak. He feels weak. “I don’t feel right.” 

Something is really, really wrong. 

Did Deaton say he’d feel like this for 12 hours? Has it even been 20 minutes? He thinks maybe he’s lost time somewhere - it must’ve been longer than 20 minutes. Everything feels languid and syrupy. Even the air feels too dense, cloudy.

Derek brushes hair back from his sweaty forehead; his hand feels so, so nice. It feels cool, even though werewolves run hot. He must have a fever.

“Please get him to rest as much as possible for the next few hours; the pain will become too unbearable around the third hour.” He’s dimly aware that Deaton must be checking his vitals, because there’s a small flashlight alternating between his eyes and he can feel his gloves on his face, and they feel wrong. Derek’s skin had felt better.

“As I suspected,” Deaton sighs. He sounds very exasperated. “Unfortunately, I fear his spark is amplifying the effects. I believe this will be reminiscent of, well, there’s no point in sugarcoating it, it will mirror when Peter’s wife had gone through her heat. I cannot accurately judge how much longer he will have clarity of mind. It would be best if you took him home at once.”

He can’t be understanding Deaton correctly. It sounds like he’s saying he will start to feel worse, but how could he possibly?

Derek is helping him to his feet, hands hot and strong on his forearm and hip where he drags him bodily off of the table. Stiles thinks he might be melting a little, appreciates the support. His limbs feels wrong, his legs unsteady; his knees shake and ankles nearly collapse when he’s standing. 

He’s not sure how he’s going to walk to the car in one piece, understands now why Deaton had called someone to drive him home. It’s been maybe half an hour since he’d come in contact with that weird shimmery dust, and already he feels like his body is betraying him.

“And Derek,” Deaton continues, “I cannot stress enough that under _no circumstances_ are you to attempt to take his pain. You will not be immune to its effects, and I’m sure you understand the gravity of the situation we would have if you were to fall under the spell. If you feel at any point like you cannot be around him without-“

Derek is nodding, but he isn’t looking at Deaton. He’s looking at Stiles. His gaze is very intense; Stiles shudders under it, feeling like he’ll break if he looks away. 

“You don’t have to say it,” Derek is saying. It’s clearly directed at Deaton, but he hasn’t stopped looking at Stiles once. “I would never hurt him.”

He realizes now how close he is to Derek, because Derek apparently hadn’t stepped back when he’d helped Stiles down; he’s practically leaning again his chest. Derek’s hands are still on his hip, on his wrist, and it burns at every point of contact.

“Can you walk?” Derek is asking him, voice low, fingers gentle where he’s stroking his hip. The touch should be soothing, but it burns. He wants to take his pants off, crawl naked into bed and sleep whatever this is off. Maybe Deaton was wrong, maybe his body will let him black out and sleep for the next 12 hours.

Also, why is Derek being so sweet with him? Even the time that hunter had captured him and broke his arm in three places, Derek had been tender while he’d wrapped his arm and leeched his pain, but he hadn’t been like _this_. He feels fragile, like a delicate piece of porcelain that Derek is terrified of breaking.

“I don’t know,” he admits. His voice is wet, shaky, why does he sound like he’s about to cry? “My legs feel weird.” Like he wants to sit back down, or spread them to alleviate the tightness in his hips, thighs.

Wait. Why are his hips and thighs tight?

“It’s okay,” Derek shushes him, pets his hand against his hip. He can feel it burning like a brand against his skin, even through the fabric of Scott’s sweatpants.

And then Derek hoists him up, and his legs are wrapped around Derek’s waist, and, oh, he hadn’t noticed it before but he’s definitely hard. He probably wouldn’t have noticed it, either, but the friction with his pelvis pressed to Derek’s rock hard abs had caused him to whine, which had in turn caused him to think about _why_ he had whined.

Wait, why the fuck is he hard?

“Derek,” he says. It comes out like a moan where his face is pressed into Derek’s neck. Derek smooths his hand down Stiles’ spine, and his whole body shakes. 

Derek carries him through the lobby doors, where the Camaro is parked out front. Who’s going to get his jeep back home? His dad will probably notice something is wrong if his jeep is gone overnight.

Derek deposits him carefully into the passenger seat, and he didn’t realize how badly he was depending on Derek’s touch to make him feel better until his hands are off of him and he _aches_.

“Shit,” Derek says. How own voice is cracked, like he’s just for the first time actually realizing how severe Stiles’ condition is. “Is your dad home?”

“No,” Stiles says, then, “I don’t know, maybe, what time is it?” He feels...energized, in a weird way. Restless. Kind of like Adderall withdrawals, actually, like he needs to be doing something.

“Okay,” Derek says. He sounds resigned. “It might be more comfortable at my loft, anyway.” He puts his hand on Stiles’ thigh while he pulls out of the parking lot, and Stiles is grateful because the touch seems to be stopping the uncontrollable shivers that keep wracking his body. “We don’t have much time. What’s your full name?”

Stiles groans, because even with his mind rapidly losing it’s grasp of reality, he’s not completely out of it yet. “Please don’t make me say it.”

Derek smirks, but it looks pained. “What’s the date today? Who’s your favorite teacher?”

“January 23rd?” What’s with the interview? He doesn’t have a concussion. Or at least, he doesn’t think he does, but then again he’s still not sure what the powder is doing to him. “And honestly, my Pre-Calc teacher Mr. Tanner. He’s a hardass and he hates me but I really like his teaching style.”

“Okay, good,” Derek says. He squeezes his knee, which for some reason, makes Stiles feel really, really safe. “Would you ever take the bite?”

That question throws him off - why would he go from his favorite teacher to that? Derek knows that’s a tough topic for him. 

“I don’t know,” he says. He thinks for a second, but it’s hard. He’s maybe losing more of his ability to grasp concepts than he’d thought. “I don’t think so? I don’t think being a werewolf is right for me. Maybe if I had to. Like if I was about to die. And I’d only take the bite from you, I’d never let Peter or anyone else bite me.”

Derek seems to relax a little, his shoulders slouching. He looks nice like that, Stiles thinks, less tense.

“The powder, it-“ Derek breaks off, clearly struggling with his words. “Anthousai. They’re kind of like sirens, but instead of the ocean they live in the woods, in the flowers. It’s - sex magic, kind of. It’s intended to leave you weak, hypnotized, so they can feed off your energy. I need to know if-“ He’s tense again, face closed off. Stiles put his hand on top of Derek’s on top of his knee. His hand is firm, and it reminds Stiles all of the hidden power Derek possesses. “It’ll dehydrate you, starve you,” Derek tries again. “There’s no cure, no way to reverse it, but. You can basically fight fire with fire.”

Stiles...considers. He thinks he knows what Derek is saying, but he couldn’t possibly mean that, right? “You mean, like, fight sex magic with sex magic?”

Derek sighs, heavily. They’re maybe 10 minutes out from the loft, still. “Kind of. You won’t be able to ignore it, but you can...take control of it. Use your own sex to overpower the magic. Sex with the Anthousai like this would drain you, kill you. Sex with a non-magic person would...take the edge off of the pain, help you regain the loss of energy.”

“Derek,” Stiles says. It sounds like a whine, because his body feels too hot again. The hand on his knee isn’t enough, he misses being pressed against Derek’s body while he’d carried him. His thighs around his waist, splayed open and _giving_ , Derek’s hand on his back. He needs Derek to hurry up with whatever his point is, because he’s quickly losing his ability to listen and understand. “Hurts. Hurry.”

Derek takes his hand off his knee to shift gears, which is terrible and the opposite of what Stiles wants, but then his hand is back and sliding up his thigh, which is much better.

“I need you to decide very quickly before you can’t consent, Stiles. I’ll stay with you, keep my hand on you, and you can try to deal with it yourself. But.” He sounds very strained, uncomfortable. Stiles understands. These circumstances are certainly less than ideal. “It might be easier, less painful, if I helped.”

Stiles moans, because with his hand on Stiles’ thigh it almost sounds like he’s offering to have sex with him. Maybe the powder was some weird dream spell, and he’s knocked out back at Deaton’s and living in a very real-feeling fantasy.

“Consent works both ways,” he says. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he feels winded. His voice is breathy, his heart feels like it’s beating out of the confines of his chest. He tries to take a deep, calming breath in, but it’s hard, when all he can focus on is Derek’s huge hand on his thigh. “Just ‘cus this stuff is making me extra horny or whatever. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want you before. Didn’t want to push, thought you _knew_.”

Derek glances over at him, awed. He looks...not unhappy. “I wouldn’t be offering, if I wasn’t...okay with it.”

By the time they pull up to the loft, he’s shaking again, even the hand on his thigh not enough. The pain comes and goes in waves, violent, overwhelming with the force of it, and Derek has to help him hobble out of the car. He takes a step, but his knees almost buckle again, and Derek doesn’t even hesitate, just picks him up like he’d done at Deaton’s, and this time when Stiles shakes it’s because the contact soothes the ache, and it feels so much better it almost makes him sob.

“Hate this,” he whimpers, panting against Derek’s shoulder. “Hate that this is happening this way, it hurts, Der.”

Derek’s hand is soft, comforting, sliding up and down his back while he carries him upstairs to the loft. He only almost puts Stiles down once, when he has to unlock the door, but Stiles makes this truly pathetic noise that he’ll definitely be embarrassed about later, and instead he just hitches him up higher around his waist and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat because it jostles his cock against Derek’s stomach.

The second Derek has the door closed behind them, Stiles almost collapses, almost slips right out of Derek’s arms and tumbles to the floor, he’s shaking so hard. Even being pressed tight up against him isn’t enough, doesn’t dull the pain - which is getting, impossibly, exponentially worse by the second - anymore. He’s trembling, fingers searching, grasping vainly for any glimpse of Derek’s bare skin, because skin feels better than clothing, and he’s so desperate to calm the miserable fire lighting up his insides.

He’s not proud to admit it, and he’ll definitely be ashamed of it later, but the second Derek takes pity and strips them both of their shirts and he gets his hands on Derek’s skin, he comes. Scott probably isn’t going to want his sweatpants back.

He breaks and starts crying then, because for some fucking reason coming cleared the fogginess in his head a little bit, but didn’t do anything at all to satisfy the _need_ thrumming throughout him, didn’t do anything to relieve the hurt. If anything, it’s only gotten worse; he feels like he’s literally ingested flames, his veins are scorching, burning up from the inside out. He’s hard again, or he just came and never even went flaccid. 

Derek shushes him, strokes his back, and he feels like a fucking baby that’s just had it’s favorite toy taken away, because as softly as Derek’s treating him, holding him like a priceless object and touching him so delicately, nothing is pacifying him. 

“Derek,” he sobs. “Please, it hurts, please.”

“I know, baby, I know, I’m so sorry,” Derek’s voice is so soft, Stiles hates it. He doesn’t want to be treated like something precious and breakable. He doesn’t want to feel like this anymore, vulnerable and powerless.

It’s only been an hour, maybe an hour and a half since the powder spilled on him. Didn’t Deaton say that the effects would peak around the third hour? He can’t believe this could possibly get worse. He’s suddenly sure that he’s not going to survive this, that Derek’s being so gentle with him because he knows he’s dying.

He can feel his tears wet on Derek’s shoulder, feel Derek heave a sigh against him. “You should rest,” he says. He doesn’t know how he’d be able to do that, with his body burning and his head muddled with thoughts. “It’ll get worse, you need to conserve your energy.”

He’s still crying, uncontrollably. Derek is walking them forward, kneels to put him on the bed across the room, and Stiles clings to him, terrified that Derek’s about to leave him there to die alone and feeling like this.

“Please,” he wails, “please. Don’t stop touching me, please. Need you.”

Derek looks absolutely devastated, like he’s the one that got doused in freaky magic nymph dust. He collapses on top of him, practically crushing him, but the weight of him feels good, and Stiles cries against him until he, miraculously, blacks out.

•

Deaton, unsurprisingly, was correct. He wakes up an hour or two later, body absolutely convulsing with the heat. He doesn’t understand how he’s still alive - he must be running a fever, human bodies aren’t designed to run at this heat for periods of time this long.

Derek must’ve left him at some point, because when he wakes up Derek is sitting next to him, dunking a washcloth into a bowl of water that’s mostly ice. The jar of goop that Deaton had given them is also there, open, on the bed, assaulting his nose.

He also must’ve stripped them while Stiles was passed out, because he’s naked and sweaty and writhing in Derek’s bed, and Derek is naked too, looking like Adonis in all his beautiful, muscled glory. Too bad Stiles is too far gone to fully appreciate it like he wants to.

He’s near tears again, not understanding why Derek had stopped touching him. But Derek’s there, shushing him again, running his hand down his side and wiping the washcloth down his stomach, and the coldness is a shock but it isn’t enough to reach bone-deep where the fucking persistent heat is ruining him.

“Please,” he says, voice wet and desperate again, and Jesus Christ once this is over he’s never going to be able to look Derek in the face ever again without being overcome with embarrassment and shame and guilt. “Please touch me again, it was helping, it’s the only thing that’s helping.”

Derek shows him some mercy, puts the washcloth in the bowl and presses both hands on him, smooths them up to his chest and down to his hips. It helps, minutely, but Stiles knows if he doesn’t want to die he’s going to need more, further, deeper.

“Can you,” his voice cracks when he tries to speak, and god, he really doesn’t want to cry again. Crying helped the least. All it did was drain him and give him a headache and not do anything for the burning at all. “Can you kiss me, please?” He sounds so, so quiet, so timid. He hates it, he hates everything about this.

Derek leans down, though. Slots his lips against his, and for the briefest of seconds the bright glow of fire burning in him lifts and is gone, and he moans with relief. And also because Derek has a really nice mouth, and hopefully when this is over he’ll use it to kiss Stiles again and Stiles won’t be fucking traumatized. He’s not holding out hope - for Derek to kiss him when he’s back to normal, or for not being traumatized, because this definitely sucks.

When Derek breaks away, he keeps his mouth just a hair away from Stiles’. Stiles is very grateful that Derek doesn’t pull too far away, knows the farther away Derek gets the more he fucking hurts. “Did that help?”

Stiles nods instead of speaking, because he’s scared that if he tries to speak again he’ll just end up crying, and he really doesn’t want to cry again.

And then Derek presses down against him with his whole body, and he lights up again, anxious, listless, needy, and he can’t help it, he cries out. “Please,” he says. It’s all he can say anymore, apparently. The only word in his vocabulary is this desperate, sad, plea. He fucking hates that word. He’s never going to ask anyone for anything politely ever again.

Derek gives him an equally sad look, like he can’t stand to see Stiles in this sort of pain, would do anything for him if it just meant he could take a little bit of it away.

“Just tell me what you need, Stiles, I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

Stiles almost, _almost_ cries at that. It’s a near thing. But his body feels like flames, like he’s seconds from combusting, and crying isn’t going to help. Derek’s hands on him, in him? Will.

He looks away, presses his face into a pillow, nervous. He doesn’t want Derek to reject him, to pull away. He’s the only thing that’s helping soothe the ache, and he’ll be fucking devastated if Derek leaves, if Derek is disgusted by him and hates him forever.

He only realizes he’s crying again when Derek brings one hand up to his chin, swipes a tear off his cheek with the pad of his thumb. It’s almost sweet enough to convince Stiles that Derek will be there for him, regardless. That this won’t be the breaking point of their friendship. That, maybe, everything will be okay again after this. If he survives it, that is.

“Need you,” he says. “Need your fingers, please.”

Derek rewards him with a gentle press of lips against his, maybe proud that he’s still capable of working words out, asking for what he needs. “Where, baby? Tell me how to help you.”

 _It doesn’t matter_ , Stiles wants to tell him. _Anywhere, everywhere, on me, in me, please, please, please_.

His mouth is working, but he can’t get the words out. His body hurts. His blood is boiling, his veins are red-hot, he’s too sweaty and slick. His dick hurts, his fucking hole keeps clenching and unclenching, ten steps ahead of Stiles’ brain and begging for something inside of it. He’s crying again, weak, whimpering, _pathetic_ cries, and he’s never crying again.

Derek seems to understand that he’s suffering, that his words are failing him. Stiles doesn’t know why he didn’t trust him before, as if his Alpha could ever let him down, ever watch him suffer; Derek knows what he wants, needs. Derek knows how to help him, comfort him, make him feel better.

That blissful, brief cooling happens again, when two of Derek’s thick, warm fingers press between his lips, rest on his tongue, and Stiles moans around them. It feels right, it feels better. Every second Derek’s fingers are in his mouth are a pain-free second, and Stiles is so grateful to him, so appreciative. He’d thank him endlessly, but that would require removing his fingers from his mouth, and Stiles can’t have that for a single second, or his body will absolutely fall to flames and he will definitely literally die, he’s sure.

He wraps his own fingers loosely around Derek’s wrist, silently ensuring Derek doesn’t get any dumb ideas about removing his fingers from their new permanent home in Stiles’ mouth. 

He’s dimly aware of the fact that he’s cum again, orgasm shuddering through him, but the feeling is barely noticeable and he doesn’t even care about it; for once, he doesn’t even care about getting off, his only desire is just to lessen the violent pain that’s been coursing endlessly through his body for hours. Good, orgasms are going to be ruined for him forever now too, anything else?

“Better?” Derek asks, but his voice barely makes it through the cloud around Stiles’ head, sounds faraway, sounds like he’s speaking underwater. 

Stiles moans, nods aggressively, licks around Derek’s fingers in his mouth. He wants to say _more, please, in me, please_ , but Derek is already two steps ahead of him, his other hand stroking his hip.

“Can I...” Derek starts, but Stiles doesn’t even let him finish. He wants to tell him that he can do anything, everything, whatever he wants, because every time he touches Stiles the pain floats away for a second and he can _think_ again, but he can’t speak, so he nods, moans, shudders. Probably cries, a little bit. 

Whatever, he’s over it. His body is just doing whatever the fuck it wants and he’s forced to tag along for the ride.

And then Derek has two fingers in his hole, and he doesn’t know how, because he didn’t feel any lube but his hole feels wet and it doesn’t hurt and he can’t explain it. Doesn’t care to explain it, honestly, because not only does he not feel on fucking fire right now, he actually feels, briefly, _normal_ , almost good, like this was all he needed. He cums again, he thinks. This time it feels better. God, what a fresh batch of traumatic bullshit for life to dump on him.

He really wishes he could kiss Derek again, but he doesn’t want to risk losing his fingers in his mouth in case he’s wracked with unbearable pain again.

He thinks he zones out for a little while, or blacks out, or something, but he’s fine with it because his body doesn’t hurt as bad as it has been hurting all day, and it feels really good to catch a fucking break, and however long or short it is, he’ll take it.

•

When he comes back to, it’s because his body is on fire again, and he comes to nearly screaming, it’s so bad. It’s worse than before - how is he still alive, Jesus, for a brief second he almost wishes it would just kill him already just so he doesn’t have to fucking feel like this anymore.

His whole body feels like someone’s actively using him for target practice for flaming fucking knives.

Derek’s fingers aren’t in him anymore, he realizes. Any of them. He was probably cramping, or his fingers had been soaked through and pruny with Stiles’ spit, but he doesn’t care, it fucking _hurts_.

“Derek,” he cries, and yeah, he’s crying again. He can’t help it anymore. His body can only take so much pain before crying is all he can do.

“Shh,” Derek says, and he’s right there, stroking his hands along his body, but it’s not helping like it was earlier. Like every time a wave crashes over him, Derek has to do more to produce the same healing effects. Which must suck for Derek, yeah, Derek’s definitely never going to want to be around him again after this, and that fact makes fresh, fat fucking pathetic tears well up in his eyes.

“Please, please,” he says. Derek is a good Alpha, always knows what his pack needs. He’s always looking out for them, caring for them. He doesn’t know what he needs, but Derek will, right?

Derek does, because he’s pressing three fingers into his hole, and this time he bumps into his prostate almost immediately, and Stiles cums again, and it still hurts, but it’s a dull pain compared to the blinding, paralyzing pain it was a second ago.

“Please, more,” he says, weakly. Everything he does today is weak and sad and pathetic, and he’s never hated anything in his life as much as he hates whatever vicious, ugly nymph crafted this bullshit.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay,” Derek is saying. He presses a kiss to his shoulder, and he sounds so sad. “You’ll be okay, baby, I promise.”

 _How_ , Stiles thinks. _How will I be okay?_

Instead, he shudders, and cries, and cums again, because Derek’s open mouth on his shoulder doesn’t hurt, and apparently brief flits of non-pain is the new arousal.

“I have an idea,” Derek says, soft. “But I’m not sure if you’ll like it. I’m not sure if it’ll work.”

 _Please_ , Stiles thinks, _anything, everything, anything, please, I’d like anything you do, it’ll work_ , because he’s so sure that as long as it involves Derek, whatever happens, he’s going to feel a little bit better, even if only for a second.

He shakes, and cries, and nods, violently.

Derek strokes his fingers inside of him. He still hurts, but compared to the crippling pain from earlier, even minor pain is manageable, almost pleasurable. He’s gonna need a therapist to work through the fucking mountain of intimacy issues this is going to leave him with.

He opens his eyes to try to tell Derek yes, anything, whatever he wants, but when he glances at Derek he’s looking down at him with this _weird_ look on his face. It’s not pity, it’s not guilt, it’s almost...affection? 

But that can’t be right, so he closes his eyes again, blinks away the sudden unwelcome flood of tears.

And then Derek is there, kissing the tears off of his face, kissing his forehead, and his fingers press inside of him and he fucking cums again.

“Can I...” Derek starts, breaks off to groan, and Stiles opens his eyes and sees Derek’s own are glowing red where he’s staring down at him. “Can I put my cock in your mouth?”

Stiles shudders, and moans, and nods, violently.

If his fingers had helped the first time, maybe his dick would get rid of the pain forever, and this could be over, right? What if Derek’s come is the antidote, Stiles thinks, inexplicably. But it doesn’t matter, once the idea is in his head it’s all he can think about.

Derek kneels on the bed, and the second he pulls his fingers out of Stiles it comes with excruciating pain so bad he thinks right then is the second he’s about to die.

And to prevent death, he gets up on his hands and knees to follow Derek, and his cock in his mouth is a fucking revelation of biblical proportions. 

He was right, he was so right: having Derek’s hard dick in his mouth, for some magical reason, leaves Stiles euphorically free of the burning. It feels right, feels normal, feels like his whole world isn’t a giant shitshow where he gets drugged with magic sex powders that leave him wishing for death if it would mean _not_ feeling stabbing, agonizing pain.

And, maybe if Derek comes out of this with a few orgasms, he can forgive Stiles for the whole mess. Maybe if Stiles can make him come, Derek will be able to look at Stiles after this and not be filled with burning hatred for him.

He just holds his dick in his mouth, gently, like a pacifier, doesn’t even suck him off for long moments because just having it in his mouth is doing wonders for the pain. He wonders if Derek would mind if he just rested like that for a while, calm and still, blissfully free of torment.

Derek doesn’t mind, apparently. Let’s him stay like that for as long as he can until the pain starts to flare up again, little sparks of it spreading throughout his body. He still wants to hold off, wait until it gets unbearable before he has to do something more, because what happens if they do everything at once to soothe him temporarily, and the next time he’s hit with the pain whatever they try doesn’t stop it and he dies?

Unbidden tears are running down his cheeks, but he doesn’t pay them any attention, just focuses on the full, heavy weight of Derek in his mouth, staving off the tendrils of fire licking at his insides, desperate to engulf him.

Derek is smoothing his hands down his spine again, and Stiles cums again, distantly, and he’s starting to notice that he only realizes he’s cum after the fact, because each time Derek reacts, favorably, to the smell of it hitting the air.

He takes as much of Derek’s dick into his mouth as he can, suckles, breathes through his nose. Wishes he’d had more experience so he could take him all the way in, feel him in his throat with his nose nestled tight against his crotch. Even like this, though, it’s enough to mildly sedate him.

They stay like that for a long while, until Stiles almost thinks that this was all he needed: that Derek in him like this was enough to assuage that evil fucking sex magic powder, and that as long as he stays like this for the next few hours maybe he can black out through it and wake up normal and pain free.

He’s wrong, though, of course, because evil sex magic powder is Evil. He cries out when the familiar, searing pain starts to act up again, and Derek is quick to hush him, press his fingertips into the dimples at the dip of his back.

“Can I put my fingers back inside you?”

Stiles can’t nod like this, with Derek’s dick in his mouth, but he moans in a way hopes sends the message that that’s all he’s ever wanted.

Derek gets it, because he’s a good Alpha and he _knows_ , knows Stiles needs it. His fingers slide back into him smoothly, and he’s still not sure why he feels so wet and slick and _open_ , thinks the powder must be responsible.

He has to lean over him a little to reach his hole, which is fine because it means his dick slides further into Stiles’ mouth, tip hitting the back of his throat and nearly making him gag before he relaxes and takes it, because the alternative would be pulling off of him and he’s absolutely not going to do that.

Derek keeps his fingers still inside of him, not insistently, just kind of plugging him up, which Stiles really appreciates because he feels so empty when doesn’t have some part of Derek inside of him.

It’s not ideal, obviously. It’s not arousal like he’s used to, fervent and enthusiastic and good. But it’s not unpleasant, and it’s not entirely uncomfortable, and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to die immediately, so he dazes in and out of awareness.

•

It must be another hour or two later, when the pain flares up and forces him to be fully cognizant again. This flare of pain is weird, incessant, and it’s accompanied by a very confusing orgasm - since when does pain get him off? Like, sure, he’s been victim to the occasional fear boner, full of adrenaline and surrounded by hot people, but coming in direct connection with sharp, violent pain? What fucking kind of reaction is that? He’s never felt so betrayed his body, and he’s literally been possessed by an evil fox spirit before.

Derek must’ve rearranged them while he was slipping in and out of consciousness, because when he blinks his eyes open, his mouth is still full of Derek’s cock - which, how is he still hard? Is he _keeping himself hard for Stiles_ , because he knows he needs it? - but he’s not on his hands and knees anymore. Derek’s sitting against the headboard, and Stiles’ head is in his lap. 

It feels more intimate than anything Derek’s done to him so far, and that, in combination with the too-bright, crippling spikes of pain tearing him apart, makes him fucking cry. _Again_.

“I’m so sorry, Stiles,” Derek is saying. He has a hand in his hair, and it’s so sweet and comforting. He hopes this carries, after. He hopes Derek is still willing to give Stiles this kind of wholesome attention when it’s over, when it’ll feel normal and good and right, and he doesn’t just _have_ to act like this because Stiles is on the brink of dying and he wants him to go out feeling like he was cared for.

He swallows around Derek’s dick in his mouth, and it’s salty and heady and musky, and Stiles is filled with the sudden animalistic need to taste Derek’s come on his tongue. Maybe Derek’s come has magical healing properties, right? Maybe his come will settle in his stomach and soothe the burning inside of him. It’s nonsensical, but how can he be expected to be sensical, under the influence of some ridiculously powerful sex magic?

He presses the flat of his tongue to the underside of Derek’s dick, suddenly eager to do more than just sit there suckling on it. He swirls his tongue around the head of it, bobs his head, and when Derek groans he sinks as mouth as far down as he can get it, swallows around him. The hand Derek doesn’t have in his hair rests agains the bale of his neck, squeezes, and he comes again, and it hurts.

He pulls his head up a little bit to look up at Derek, who looks beautiful and broken and a little sad, with his head tilted back against the headboard, and brings a hand tentatively to play with Derek’s heavy balls, and when he sucks hard around just the tip of Derek’s dick, he comes. It’s hot and salty and a little bitter, but the way it fills Stiles’ whole mouth, there’s so much of it, it feels good, feels like the relief of tasting Nyquil when he’s sick, how fucking apt.

When he swallows it all, his whole body feels soft and floaty and blissfully _clear_. The ache dissipates, until it’s barely there, and this time when he cries it’s because he’s overjoyed to be free of it, and not because he’s terrified of the never ending fever.

Derek must sense it, must be able to tell that he’s not currently in the clutches of it, because he pulls him up against his chest, pets his hair and his face and his back and kisses him so devastatingly sweetly.

“I should put some of that stuff Deaton gave me on you,” he’s saying, and Stiles can hear him clearly, for once, understands him easily like he’s not trudging through mud. “Maybe it’ll make the clarity last a little longer?”

Stiles sighs, nods, weak against Derek’s chest. “Thank you,” he says. His voice is wrecked, worn out from crying and noising, but he wants to take the opportunity while can speak.

“You don’t have to thank me, baby. I’d do anything to keep you safe. I’d do anything to help you.” Derek’s petting him, his sides, his ribs, his back, and Stiles hides his face in Derek’s shoulder and shivers, and not because he hurts. “I wish I could take the pain.” 

He pauses, and Stiles is quiet because Derek sounds nervous, cautious. 

“But the effect it has on wolves, if it was me that had gotten hit. It’d make me crazy, I’d have no control. Be driven to hunt, catch, hurt. Mate. It’d make me fuck you, maybe to death.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, meek. “You’re helping. You always help me.” _I feel safe with you_ , he wants to say.

He zones out, dozes off, peacefully, while Derek rubs that disgusting goop on his stomach, works it in, dimly aware of him wiping it off with a cool washcloth again after a while. 

This time it’s a good, long, pain-free break. Probably an hour. The eucalyptus that was in the mix feels sharp in a good way, icy, clear. A little invigorating. He wakes up feeling displaced and shaky, and the pain is in the background but growing.

“It’s getting bad again,” he whimpers, presses into Derek’s neck.

“Okay,” Derek says. “Drink some water before you can’t, I don’t want you to dehydrate.” 

He lets Derek tip his head back and press a water bottle to his lips, and a fair bit of it drips down his chin because he can’t really focus. “Just let me know when you need it, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

God, he hates this. He hates that this is probably the only time he’ll ever have Derek like this, caring for him like he loves him. The thought turns Stiles’ stomach. As soon as this is over he’s barricading himself in his room and ignoring all of his awful friends and fucking _never_ asking Deaton to train him, ever again. Magic sucks. Sex magic is _the worst_.

He tries to hold out as long as he can, until the pain is debilitating again. He paws at Derek’s skin, tries to focus on anything else, tries desperately to just ignore it and pretend it isn’t there because he’s so _tired_ of this. He doesn’t want to feel powerless anymore, doesn’t want to have to ask Derek for help, doesn’t want to force Derek to touch him if he doesn’t want to.

But he doesn’t have to ask Derek to help him, because he reaches for him automatically when he feels him shaking apart where he’s still pressed against him. Derek’s a really caring, considerate Alpha, and Stiles feels horrible.

Naturally, because it’s the only reaction that comes easily to him, he starts to cry. 

“Hate this,” he sobs, and Derek presses kisses to his forehead, presses four fingers inside of his hole. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand how his body can feel like it’s on fire for no fucking reason at all, but Derek shoving four of his thick fingers into him, stretching him - which by all accounts _should_ hurt like hell - doesn’t hurt at all. 

He wants to give Derek an out, let him know that he doesn’t have to do this, he can suffer alone, and maybe they’ll be able to still be friends after this. 

“You smell sad,” Derek says. He sounds desperate and angry, like Stiles’ sadness is offensive to him and he’s pissed that he hasn’t been able to fix him yet. “I hate it, just wanna make you feel better. Let me take care of you, please, baby.”

Stiles doesn’t respond, _can’t_ respond, because the pain is gripping him again, but he shuffles closer and tucks his head under Derek’s chin and breathes him in and wishes he could feel safe and carefree again.

Derek presses his fingertips to his lips and he opens his mouth and sucks them in gratefully, and he realizes that Derek was using that as a distraction because there’s sudden, blinding heat and pain while Derek removes his fingers from his hole. 

But then they’re replaced with his dick, and Stiles can’t even express how much better that is. The pain melts away into the background again, and he sobs, and comes, and he’s so fucking mad that this is happening this way. He’s wanted Derek for so long, and he can only have him when he’s in the throes of literally the worst attack of pain he’s ever felt in his life. 

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” Derek is saying, and, “You’re almost there, I promise, it’s almost over.”

But what happens when this is over? What if when this is over, Derek kicks him out of the pack, can’t stand the sight of him? He almost, _almost_ , wishes this would never end, just because the thought of Derek hating him is definitely worse than this torture.

“Thought about you like this, before,” Derek’s saying. It’s foggy, he’s probably not hearing him right, but it’s what he wants to hear, so it’s good.

He goes limp with Derek inside of him, boneless and numb while he grinds and ruts and fucks him through it, and when Derek comes inside of him he feels settled and languid and _exhausted_ , and he blacks out.

•

It goes on like that for another six or seven hours, but it feels like forever. He wakes up in searing, screeching pain, Derek fucks it out of him, he comes, and comes, and comes, and he only blacks out when Derek comes inside of him and the pain gets hazy and soft enough for his body to collapse.

The fever finally breaks around the fourteenth hour - he still gets the occasional shake, but it’s so quiet compared to its former intensity that Stiles can ignore it easily enough and finally sleep through the rest of it.

When he wakes up, and it’s been a full 24 hours since the initial incident, he’s still in Derek’s bed. His brain feels disconnected, thoughts scattered, and his body is sore like it’s never been before. Derek was right: he wakes up feeling drained of his life essence, starving, dehydrated.

And Derek’s there, his big, heavy hand settled on his waist, and Stiles sees thick black lines running up his veins and knows Derek is trying to leech the soreness out of him, which makes him jerk, because-

“Didn’t Deaton say-“ His voice is ridiculously hoarse, so he clears his throat, tries again, “I thought you couldn’t-“

“It’s okay,” Derek says, no less soft than he has been the entire time, “it ran it’s course, it’s fine, let me help you.”

Stiles is quiet for a minute, basking in the glow Derek’s werewolf pain-drain mojo always leaves behind. 

But with the pain leaving his body, all he’s left with is the emotional aftermath. The fear of Derek hating him, leaving him crushed and heartbroken. The trauma of losing his virginity while drugged by sex magic, and the trauma of feeling like he practically forced Derek to bear the responsibility. He feels like he’s taken advantage of him in the worst way possible.

His eyes are wet, but he’s cried out, refuses to show any more weakness. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Stiles, this wasn’t your fault. I told Deaton to dispose of the stuff, but.” And he breaks off to growl, which Stiles understands, because why would Deaton keep anything like this around? “He wanted to keep it, study it.”

Stiles laughs, and it sounds harsh and wrong and ugly. Maybe he should’ve brought a notebook and taken notes for him.

And then Derek kisses the back of his neck, gentle, cautious, which. His heart skips, maybe breaks.

“You know you don’t have to do that anymore, if you don’t want to.” It’s so quiet, he almost thinks he hadn’t said it out loud.

Derek pulls back, and Stiles likes to think he knows Derek well enough to know he probably has a confused, grouchy scowl on his face.

“Would it be alright if I did? Want to?”

 _So alright_ , he wants to say. _Anything, Derek, everything_.

“Yes,” he says instead, and he can feel Derek smile against the back of his shoulder when he kisses him again.

“I’ll make you real food, later,” Derek says. “But there’s water and fruit on the nightstand. You should rest, recoup.”

Stiles’ heart skips again. Here it comes, Derek’s going to leave him and probably never look at him again.

“Are you...going somewhere?” He’s not proud of how broken his voice sounds, but he’s also not proud of anything that’s happened in the last 24 hours, so. He figures he’s allowed some brokenness.

But it doesn’t happen, Derek doesn’t leave him. He presses another kiss to the back of Stiles’ neck, smooths his fingers over his hipbone.

“Just to call the pack,” he says, “let them know you’re alright.” And he keeps pressing these soft, too-sweet kisses to his neck and shoulders, the top of his spine. Stiles shivers, in a good way. “Probably gonna call Argent too.”

What? Why? 

“Why?”

“Because,” Derek says, growls, and he shifts to turn Stiles over to face him. “I’m hunting those fucking nymphs down. Won’t let them or anyone else hurt you ever again.”

Oh. That feels...suspicious. Like...can’t be.

“Why?” he asks again, and it’s no-one else’s business but his own, the way his heart it is jumping.

This time, when Derek kisses his mouth, it’s firm, but there’s not even a hint of pain - it’s just pure pleasure, pure softness. And when he pulls back, he’s dazed and his eyes are glassy, but it’s not because he’s near tears.

“Because seeing you like that,” Derek starts, pauses. “Broke me. Never want to see you hurt again. Just want. I just want-“

“What?” Can’t be, can’t be. 

“You,” Derek says, and Stiles moans and kisses him again, in the least amount of pain he’s ever felt in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> there are brief, fleeting mentions (not tag-worthy) of stiles wishing he would die when the pain overwhelms him, because he wants it to be over. there are no other suicide mentions/suicidal thoughts, but i’m throwing it out there for you.


End file.
